


Camellias

by yeaka



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Ficlet, Gen, Kid Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-20
Updated: 2015-06-20
Packaged: 2018-04-05 08:27:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 929
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4172856
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Thranduil and Elrond watch their children play.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Camellias

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Fill for lunarlumina’s “the line in MiB "you know the difference between you and me, i make this look good." as said by thranduil, maybe feeling a bit competitive with an oblivious Elrond, could be anything silly--hair, wardrobe, or their beautiful offsprings. (legolas, arwen)” prompt on [my tumblr](http://yeaka.tumblr.com/). **Mild AU** just for timeline alterations.
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Hobbit or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

For what it lacks in beauty, Imladris makes up in room for children. There are no towering, gnarled trees to represent the ages past, but that just leaves no roots for Legolas to trip on. Arwen picks up whatever flowers she likes, because unlike the Greenwood, none are poisonous. The river that runs past is beyond their borders and there’s no danger of falling in, though Thranduil has his guards stand by just in case. His little prince is worthy of the watch no matter how safe Elrond’s home may appear. As Thranduil lounges back in the elaborate wooden chairs Elrond’s had brought out for them, he always keeps one eye on his child, who chases Arwen along paving stones with bubbling laughter. 

He doesn’t laugh so much at home. He doesn’t smile so much, either, but then, there are no children of his age in Thranduil’s woods. There’s no one for him to playfully chase through open fields; all of Thranduil’s other citizens are at least twice little Legolas’ size. 

“Legolas appears to be enjoying himself,” Elrond comments idly from over the rim of his glass, filled with only herbal tea. Thranduil’s goblet is full of wine; he would accept nothing less. He keeps it on the round table between them and considers Elrond’s words. From himself, they might’ve been a subtle dig, but nothing in Elrond’s tone suggests pride in the accomplishment of his home. Around a bush of roses, Legolas and Arwen fall to their knees, panting with the exertion of their run but still bright-eyed and ready. Arwen starts plucking flowers from the earth, and Legolas holds out his hands in waiting.

Finally, Thranduil neutrally replies, “He is an exceptionally resilient child.” His own tone is bored, his meaning cryptic. As usual, Elrond is little fun and doesn’t rise to the bait.

“He has grown since I last saw him.”

This time, Thranduil doesn’t answer; there’s simply nothing to say. Children grow, and both of theirs have a long way of it still, though Elladan and Elrohir have reached a certain timelessness. Or perhaps Thranduil has simply not paid them enough attention to notice their change with each visit. They’re too young for his enjoyment and too old to keep Legolas company, and therefore useless to him.

Still, he finds these trips more bearable than they once where. Elrond can be a stuffy thing, stale and bland and unduly concerned with the affairs of lesser beings, and his company does little for Thranduil, aside from the occasional chance of a good needling remark. Yet having Legolas brought with him does change the dynamics. However stoic Thranduil tries to remain, there’s something about seeing a smile on his precious child’s face that always makes him _glow_ inside. He still presents himself as regally as possible, but Legolas puts him in an uncharacteristically good mood, and though he would never admit it aloud, he enjoys these visits for that.

Thranduil is nearly to the bottom of his glass when Arwen and Legolas climb back to their feet, hurrying over with cries of, “Ada!” and tiny, reaching hands. Elrond smiles and bends down to scoop his daughter up, her brown hair and dress blowing joyously in the wind. 

Thranduil offers Legolas no such help. He climbs onto his own into his father’s lap, his arms stretching to place a ring of woven-together flowers atop Thranduil’s white-gold hair. In his peripherals, Elrond is donning a similar faux-crown, though he bows his head graciously when he accepts it. 

With the makeshift circlet in place, Legolas smiles sheepishly up at Thranduil. Thranduil’s own crown, left in his guest quarters for casual vacations such as this, is not so different, though obviously far more skillfully crafted. The silver ringlet he’s worn today instead is probably hidden beneath his new wreath, Elrond’s much the same. Elrond tells his daughter, “Thank you, Arwen,” and offers her a hug.

Legolas doesn’t open his arms for such a display. He’s intelligent enough to know he won’t get one. Thranduil doesn’t discourage such pointless activities as playing in the garden, but he doesn’t encourage them, either. The world is a very different place than Elrond’s children will grow up believing, but Legolas will be prepared. He slips off his father’s lap when Arwen does the same, and they run back off together to marvel in whatever nonsense has kept the grins on their little faces.

In their absence, Thranduil retrieves his glass and idly swirls the remaining wine around it. After a few moments and another sip, Elrond says, “I am surprised you continue to wear it.” _It_ is obvious. And indeed, it’s unlike Thranduil to keep such amateur designs on his person. The rest of his wardrobe is exquisitely made with only the finest materials and most talented of hands. Elrond, on the other hand, is not above such lowly creations. And that comparison makes Thranduil don a languid smirk.

He rolls his head to his companion and drawls, “You know, the difference between you and me is that I make this look good.” He tilts his chin as he says it, letting the sunlight hit him just so, and he knows, without a shadow of a doubt, that he’s still devastatingly gorgeous, even with a child’s handmade confections in his hair. Elrond isn’t fooling him. Thranduil can see the restrained, impressed _want_ in his eyes. Thranduil can pull off anything.

So Thranduil wears his son’s flower crown and sips at his wine while the little ones run amok, oblivious to the musings of their makers.


End file.
